Search for a Stampede
by Eden Evergreen
Summary: (Contains spoilers.) Beginning 35 years post-Manga, criminals calling themselves "Vash the Stampede" frequently found themselves tied up in front of sheriff's offices. A collection of short stories. Meryl goes to investigate, and others are surprised.
1. Search for a Stampede

This story is set 35 years post-Manga. **It does contain spoilers,** including information from the manga's last chapter.

I do not own Trigun / Vash or Meryl. They belong to the amazing Yasuhiro Nightow.

**Search for a Stampede**

Meryl stood at the railing on the deck of the sand steamer, watching the desert go by. She brushed her graying hair out of her eyes, to better enjoy the view. The second sun was just clearing the horizon, so the sky was still tinted with all the myriad hues that came with a sunrise.

So far, the trip had been boring. The steamer would arrive at May city by late afternoon or evening the day after tomorrow.

Her sources informed her that Tonis had recently become May City's sheriff. He was one of many boys who'd played with Vash, all those years ago when she and Milly had been following the humanoid typhoon's steps. This made it slightly possible that Tonis might look the other way, if Vash were seen in the area.

Meryl had been in her late teens and early twenties back in the days when she and Milly had traveled with Vash. Now she was 55, a wife, mother and grandmother. Yet she still wanted to find the humanoid typhoon. Among other things, it would be nice to see him again and maybe chat over old times a bit.

At least this trip, there wasn't such a shortage of funds that she lacked a room. Her husband was currently in their room, sleeping. He tended to sleep in most mornings, and she would often stay dozing with him. However, today she wanted to be up and about. She wanted to see if anything interesting would happen.

Vash... he'd been her first love, and she still felt warmth toward him. That man was so annoying, irritating, gentle, frustrating, foolish, insightful, childlike... and adorable. He'd frequently told her to stay away from him for her own safety. If she didn't let him go, he'd run away. That seemed to be his idea of the best way to protect her.

He must have had some idea how she'd felt about him. Milly hadn't exactly been subtle when she scolded him about it.

When he'd promised to return after fighting Knives, Meryl had thought... or perhaps, hoped... that he meant it romantically. She'd imagined that he'd only been speaking to her.

But in the six months that followed, with no word and not even a clear knowledge of if he was alive or dead, she belatedly realized that Milly had been standing right there with her when he spoke those words. He might have been speaking to both, as a friend.

The more she'd thought about it, the more she'd realized that Vash had never shown any preference for her over Milly. She'd made efforts to reach toward him, but he hadn't reached back in the same way.

He'd always treated them both equally, with respect and as friends. He'd never acted as one might expect a man to behave toward a lady that he admired romantically.

Wolfwood had been fond of Milly, which sometimes left Meryl alone with Vash. While she'd treasured those times, she came to understand it wasn't anything he had sought.

That had been a difficult realization. At the time, it had hurt. Badly.

So when she finally learned where she might find Vash, half a year later, she'd chosen her career over her hopes for him. She'd deliberately behaved in a manner that she knew was sure to drive him away.

It had worked better than she'd imagined.

Vash had always been a very forgiving soul, so she had confidently expected to see him again after awhile. She wasn't sure how long it would take him to forgive that, but she'd fully expected to see him long before now. She'd half-hoped he would miss her enough to come after her, for a change. But that never happened.

Thirty-five years had passed. It seemed as if he had vanished entirely.

She'd not realized at the time what harm she might do, broadcasting his face and his red coat all over the planet. That had made it completely impossible for him to travel anonymously, protecting people from harmful outlaws, as he had done previously. It also must have made it very difficult for him to find a place to hide. Yet, somehow, he had hidden himself very thoroughly.

About 25 years ago, the rash of "Vash the Stampede" sightings had become almost comical. There had been ten or fifteen men claiming to be Vash. They all wore red coats, and did their hair up in a manner similar to his.

However, none of them had behaved at all like the man Meryl had once known. Instead, they all acted like his ill-matching evil reputation.

Someone, who had never yet been identified, had begun to do something about it during the last ten years.

Men who claimed to be "Vash the Stampede" had begun appearing in front of sheriff's offices, all tied up, with punny notes on them. The notes said things like, "I tried to be Vash, but I got stampeded," or "I was run over by a typhoon," or "I was caught by a localized natural disaster."

Most people assumed the notes were merely mocking the audacity of men pretending to be someone they were not. However, Meryl's instincts whispered to her that it might be the handiwork of the real Stampede.

Though very patient, Vash had his limits. People using his name to hurt or kill others would not please him. He might have decided that enough was enough, and come out of hiding to hunt them.

It was like him to turn them in, and not kill them.

Rottenberg canyon was one of several sites where someone claiming to be "Vash the Stampede" was currently committing crimes. Neon must have retired, and his replacement was masquerading as the humanoid typhoon.

The sand steamer she was riding would enter that canyon in just a few hours.

Meryl had carefully tracked the path that had been left by captured impersonators, and it was moving toward this area. The timing seemed about right, so there was a hope of seeing the vigilante who had taken it upon himself to stop the false Stampedes.

It had taken some effort to persuade her aging home-loving husband to take a vacation in May city, using a route that passed through that dangerous canyon. Yet she had succeeded at last, and here they were.

She started pacing. She noticed that the security guards were on high alert, too. Her hand strayed to her pocket, where she'd concealed a derringer. She glanced down at the comforting weapon. Even if she had missed her guess, she should be fine.

While distracted, she bumped into someone. She turned her head, and was at eye-level with the crewman's name-tag on his chest. "Kaite," it said.

"Oh, I'm sorry," they both said.

She chuckled. "I wasn't watching where I was going," she said.

"No problem," he said, smiling. "Have a good trip."

"Thank you," she replied.

Well, nothing was likely to happen until after breakfast. Meryl went to the dining area, and browsed the buffet. When she saw doughnuts, she seemed to have something in her eye. She blinked rapidly several times, and felt better. Surely, she couldn't be growing so sentimental as to get dewy-eyed simply from seeing Vash's favorite food!

She selected various items, and found herself a place to sit and eat. Staying with a crowd was a good idea, anyhow. On one hand, there was some safety in numbers. On the other hand, that seemed likely to increase her chances of being present if anything happened.

After eating, though, she grew restless. She wandered aimlessly around the steamer until they entered the canyon.

They hadn't gotten far when an alarm sounded, and she heard crew and security rushing about. So the so-called "Stampede" was making a try at the steamer.

It was nearly time for lunch, so likely that most people would be in the dining area. That is where the criminal gang was likely to corral them, so Meryl moved in that direction.

She darted into one doorway of the dining area almost exactly sixty seconds before the outlaws flooded in from all of them. They waved their guns around, and shouted, and pushed everyone into a corner without a doorway.

Then what she'd hoped for happened.

A tall man with shoulder-length black hair came through a side door, and shot one of the bandits in the shoulder. From the angle where she was, she couldn't see the shooter's face. The shot bandit screamed and dropped his gun. In rapid succession, each of the other bandits received a similar injury, with the same results, except for the one in the red coat.

The way the tall vigilante moved left no doubt in Meryl's mind. Even though she couldn't see his face, she knew the man standing there stopping the robbers from hurting anyone was the real Vash. The original humanoid typhoon. The genuine article.

Meryl was briefly distracted by a movement from the crewman she'd seen earlier. She recognized him from his name tag. He was slowly edging toward the bandits, looking grim. She hoped he wasn't planning to try anything foolish, and moved her own hand slowly and carefully toward her stowed derringer.

"Stop this," the vigilante said in a soft, intense voice.

"Right - and you think you're going to make me?" the false typhoon jeered. "Do you have any idea who you're messing with? I'm Vash the Stampede! I take what I will, and I kill where I will. And nobody can do anything about it!"

"I can," the vigilante said, in the same intense voice. "Please, don't make me hurt you."

Meryl's stomach felt like it was doing acrobatics. She'd been right. Nobody else would ever say that in quite that tone of voice.

In his arrogance, the counterfeit dared to point his weapon toward the tall vigilante. There was a muzzle blast from the taller man's gun, and the man in the red coat fell to the ground. He grabbed at his leg and started screaming.

The vigilante calmly threw a roll of bandages to the crewman who had reached the bandits. "Please bandage them," he said, "then take them to the nearest sheriff's office."

The crewman nodded, and smiled. The vigilante holstered his gun and stepped through the side doorway where he had entered.

Meryl lunged to her feet, and immediately ran after him.

"Vash!" she called when she passed through the doorway.

She saw him turn a corner. She ran faster, and turned the same corner. There was only one doorway, and she opened it to find a nearly empty storage room with no other exit. There was no unseen place large enough to conceal even a child, let alone Vash.

He was gone, again.

It took her ten minutes to find the ventilation shaft he must have used. That suggested he'd planned ahead, which would fit with the idea that he was indeed hunting imposters.

Deeply disappointed, Meryl returned to the dining room. Even if her husband was not in the crowd, he'd be going there for lunch and wondering where she'd been all day.

There was no further hope of seeing Vash. It was time to return to her current life.

...

When the steamer reached May city, Vash watched the passengers disembark from concealment. He saw Meryl with her husband beside her. The way the two interacted, they appeared to be a happy couple.

He was genuinely glad for Meryl. He was also sad that they couldn't remain friends. The way she'd felt about him back then had made that impossible. It would only hurt her. Now, it would be inappropriate for other reasons.

She must have guessed who was hunting counterfeit Stampedes. She'd been too quick to go after him, calling his name. Thankfully, she hadn't brought news cameras this time!

"Goodbye, Meryl," he said softly. "Be well."

...

...

**Author's Note:**_ This story should be able to stand alone. However, it also coordinates with chapters 4-5 of "Vash's Long Road to Home," which is a sequel to "Vash's Quiet Life." There's also an associated "free verse" poem titled "Too Late."_

_(Just in case anyone happens to be interested in reading any more of what I imagine might follow the manga's end.) _;-)


	2. Stampede Coming

This story is set 35 years post-Manga.

I do not own Trigun / Vash or Kaite. They belong to the amazing Yasuhiro Nightow.

**Stampede Coming**

Approximately one week before the events described in chapter 1...

"Hello again, Kaite," said a quiet voice from the shadows. "It's been a long time."

Kaite startled, and turned toward the vaguely familiar voice. The speaker stepped out of the shadows, and removed his sunglasses.

"Vash!" Kaite said, and then ducked into the shadows himself, grabbing the other man's arm to pull him back out of sight. Vash's hair was long and black now, instead of short and blonde. Otherwise, he looked exactly the same as Kaite remembered him. "Are you crazy? They're hunting you!"

"I know," he said. Kaite saw one corner of his mouth quirk upward into a lopsided grin. "As it so happens, that's nothing new."

Kaite chuckled, oddly relieved. "No, I suppose it isn't. What brings you here, of all places?" Yet even as he asked the question, he suspected that he might already know the answer.

"I won't allow my name to be used as a weapon in the hands of troublemakers who harm others," Vash said. "I hope to disarm everyone who misuses it like that."

Kaite could understand. He remembered Vash from his childhood, when Brilliant Dynamite Neon had recruited him to aid with the robbery of a sand steamer. Vash had shown him a way out of that life of crime. "Yeah, if someone was using my name that way, I'd want to stop it, too," Kaite said.

"Would it be too much to ask," Vash said, "for you to help me get onto the steamer? I can't exactly buy a ticket like everyone else."

Kaite said, "What did you have in mind?" Kaite had been working on the sand steamer for many years. His knowledge gained from his copy of his father's blueprints had proven valuable several times.

Vash briefly outlined his plan, and Kaite smiled. "You got it," he said.

Vash smiled in return.

...

The false Stampede had stopped the steamer on several prior trips. Kaite had been forced to watch in helpless horror while the man and his gang had robbed and killed.

There was no reason to expect the bandit would allow the steamer to pass unmolested on this trip, any more than he had on prior passes. Unfortunately, the canyon was by far the best route to May city.

Vash had promised to stay hidden unless the steamer was attacked. He asked that Kaite collect the weapons of the bandits, and bandage their injuries, so that he could disappear more quickly. His old friend didn't wish anyone to be harmed in pursuing the bounty on his head. Kaite could respect that.

He smuggled him onto the steamer well in advance of the passengers. He knew a hiding place where Vash could be comfortable and unnoticed, unless his special expertise was needed.

Kaite sneaked in almost every evening, to bring Vash food and to hang out. The outlaw could be highly entertaining when he chose, and Kaite thoroughly enjoyed evenings spent with him. He almost hoped the false Stampede would let the steamer pass unchallenged, so that the real one would stay on the steamer longer.

They also spent time with the blueprint copy. Kaite pointed out routes from this hidden location to key areas of the ship. Vash nodded thoughtfully, and thanked him. For the second time, he trusted Kaite with the small radio that allowed them to communicate.

Everything was as ready as it could be. All that remained was to wait and see what would happen when they reached the bandits' territory.

...

On the morning of the day when the steamer was scheduled to enter the disreputable canyon, Kaite was restlessly pacing around the steamer. He was so distracted that he failed to notice a tiny grey-haired passenger until he bumped into her.

"Oh, I'm sorry," they both said.

She chuckled. "I wasn't watching where I was going," she said.

"No problem," he said, smiling. "Have a good trip."

"Thank you," she replied.

She was nice about it, but Kaite felt badly for having been so careless. He tried to do better as he roamed about restlessly waiting to learn if the bandits would attack.

Shortly before lunchtime, the anticipated attack occurred. As far as Kaite could tell, the whole gang went directly to rounding up passengers and corralling them in the dining area. He radioed Vash, to inform him of this.

Without intending that result, the bandits had cornered themselves. Kaite smiled grimly at that realization and started edging toward the bandits as unobtrusively as he could. He'd grown to be a fair-sized man, so it took some effort to avoid attracting their attention as he moved.

Bang! The first bandit dropped his gun to scream and clutch at his shoulder. Kaite had missed seeing the moment when Vash entered the room, but so had the bandits.

The leader of the gang had not yet drawn his weapon, but all of his men had. Each of them was quickly disabled. Kaite did not envy them their injuries, but knew there was little danger that any of them would die. The real Vash was too skilled, and too careful.

"Stop this," Vash said in a soft, intense voice.

"Right - and you think you're going to make me?" the bandit jeered. "Do you have any idea who you're messing with? I'm Vash the Stampede! I take what I will, and I kill where I will. And nobody can do anything about it!"

"I can," Vash said. "Please, don't make me hurt you."

The counterfeit arrogantly dared to point his weapon toward the real Vash. There was a muzzle blast from the taller man's gun, and the man in the red coat fell to the ground. He grabbed at his leg and started screaming.

Vash tossed Kaite a roll of bandages. "Please bandage them," he said, "then take them to the nearest sheriff's office."

Kaite nodded, and smiled. Vash smiled back, holstered his gun, and stepped through a side doorway into the ship's corridor.

"Vash!" Kaite recognized the petite passenger he'd bumped into earlier that morning. The woman dashed through the door after Vash, her tiny face somehow looking both pleased and worried at the same time.

Kaite had work to do, and he knew that Vash could reach his vanishing point and escape from the passenger if he wished. He set about his assigned tasks of collecting weapons and bandaging bandits. Other men, both crew and passengers, came forward to help prevent the injured bandits from misbehaving.

That evening, Vash praised Kaite's work when he reclaimed his small radio. They shared another pleasant evening, goofing off and telling jokes.

...

When the steamer reached May City's port, Kaite went back to the hidden room to bid Vash farewell. But all he found was a note of gratitude from the wanted man.

Vash himself had vanished.


	3. Stampede Run

This chapter's story is set approximately 37 years post-Manga. **There are spoilers**.

I do not own Trigun / Vash or Livio. They belong to the amazing Yasuhiro Nightow.

**Stampede Run**

Two years after the sand-steamer incident...

Livio stood by the Sheriff's office in December in the last light of the setting suns, glaring at the wanted poster still proclaiming a price on the head of Vash the Stampede.

Some nut was running around the outskirts of town, claiming he was the humanoid typhoon. Livio knew the real Vash would never stoop to highway robbery. He'd been hunting said nut, wanting to clear Vash's name, but he kept being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Today had been another long, frustrating day of not finding the nuisance. Perhaps he was merely growing too old to be effective. His rapid aging had stopped when he no longer used the medical vials from the Eye of Michael, but that didn't stop the natural march of the years leaving their traces on his body.

Nearly 40 years had passed since he fought Crimson Nails, since the day that he would have died if Vash had not killed Legato. He was still grateful for that, though he also felt guilty for the pain it had caused.

He still wasn't sure why they put a price on the man's head. Vash had ever only done his best to help people. He would risk his own life, without hesitation, to save another's.

Vash saved the whole doggoned planet, for pity's sake. He'd risked his life to stop Knives' efforts to raise the plants against the humans. Nobody would be around to hunt him if he hadn't persuaded the plants to give humans another chance.

It seemed to Livio that Vash had earned the right to have a little peace in his life.

Livio himself had enjoyed many years of quiet anonymity, working at the orphanage where Wolfwood died. He'd been blessed again when Milly came there to mourn their mutual friend, and stayed on to help with the children... and, eventually, had become his wife.

He smiled, still marveling at that miracle. His thoughts flickered back over their years together, from their first awkward meeting until the present, and he smiled. Milly was amazing. He still adored her even though she, too, was growing old and grey.

Their children had scattered, but returned to visit with the grandchildren. There were still the orphans to look after, so plenty of little ones about to help them all remain young at heart.

Yes, he had a good life since Knives' defeat. He gave most of the credit for that to Nicholas and Vash. Without their influence, he might still be trapped within the Eye of Michael.

It had grown dark while his thoughts wandered. The moons had risen, shedding their softer light over the town and the surrounding desert.

The sound of a footstep roused him from his musings. Instinctively, he turned toward the sound and saw that, except for the other and himself, the streets were deserted. How long had he been standing there lost in thought?

"Hello Livio," a familiar voice said.

"Vash!" he almost impulsively hugged the man, but there was something large draped over his shoulder.

"Not too loud," Vash said. Livio could hear amusement in his friend's voice. "Would you be so kind as to help me lower this fellow gently to the ground?"

Livio simply did as he was asked, not wasting time with words. The man Vash carried was wearing a red coat, had his hair spiked, and was thoroughly tied up with rope.

"You caught the impostor," Livio observed.

"Yes," Vash said. "He shouldn't be troubling anyone else now. The sheriff should keep him locked up long enough for him to learn the error of his ways."

Livio nodded and watched as Vash knelt and pulled out a paper and pen. He craned his neck to se what was being written, and then groaned.

"A Vash or not a Vash; that is the question," the note read. The large black capitol letters showed plainly in the moonlight.

Vash chuckled. "Well, the notes can't all be outstanding," he said.

Livio chuckled in turn. There was something infectious about Vash's laugh. "I suppose not," he agreed. "Hey, want to come to the orphanage? I'm sure Milly would be pleased to see you, too. We could have a few laughs over old times, and you could sleep there comfortably."

"That sounds nice," Vash said. Then he glanced pointedly toward the wall with the wanted posters. "However, I really should keep moving."

"I don't think anyone at the orphanage would turn you in," Livio said darkly.

"Perhaps not," Vash said, "but why tempt them? Meryl already guessed I might be the one dealing with my impostors. Others might make the same guess. I don't want to give anyone a reason to come sniffing around the orphanage and endangering you, Milly or the children."

"So you've seen Meryl recently?" Livio asked, sidestepping the subject. "How is she?"

"We didn't speak," Vash said. "However, she and her husband both seemed fine. That was two years ago, when I stopped a different impostor."

"Are you sure I can't talk you into coming over, even for a little while?" Livio asked hopefully.

"Best I not stick around," Vash replied. "I'll visit his grave another time."

"All right," Livio said. He could understand, but he was disappointed.

"It was good to see you again," Vash said, extending a hand.

Livio shook it. "It was good to see you, too."

Vash nodded, and then turned and walked away. Livio watched him until he walked out of sight around the corner of a building. Then he sighed.

He should go home to the orphanage, before Milly got too worried about him.


	4. Stampede Away

This chapter's story is set approximately 57 years post-Manga.**  
**

I do not own Trigun / Vash or Lina. They belong to the amazing Yasuhiro Nightow.

**Stampede Away**

Approximately twenty years after the sand-steamer incident...

Lina sighed in frustration, and blew her fading hair out of her eyes.

A few months ago, a bandit claiming the name "Vash the Stampede" had started causing trouble around the outskirts of town. She and her deputies, including her overly-dedicated eldest son Eriks, had been trying to catch the scoundrel.

It had been another exhausting month, with no success. Today seemed worse than usual, since the blasted bandit had troubled some travelers while she and her deputies were out in the desert.

She wanted this nuisance stopped, dang it! It was bad enough that he was causing trouble, but worse that he was using a name she secretly honored in her heart to do it. She knew the man who owned that name, and she knew he would never stoop to the crimes this ... criminal ... committed.

She suspected her son Eriks was extra-annoyed for his namesake's true name being misused, also. She smiled fondly, thinking of how tall and strong her son had grown. She loved all of her children, but somehow the eldest had a special place in her heart. She tried never to show that to anyone, not wanting to hurt the others. But there it was, nonetheless.

Lina glared again at the wanted poster, proclaiming a price on the head of Vash the Stampede. That gentle soul would never deliberately do anything to hurt others, unless they were threatening innocent people. If someone did threaten innocent bystanders in his presence, though, she'd seen that he was perfectly capable of disabling them to rescue their intended victims.

Her own gunfights, to her dismay and endless regret, had not always ended without deaths. She'd always done the best she could, though. As sheriff, she'd had access to better information than most. She knew Vash didn't kill, and she deeply respected that.

She roused herself from her wandering thoughts. She must be growing senile. She kept getting lost in thought during quiet times, these last two years. She could feel herself slowing down. The last few months, there was some stiffness growing in various places. That warned her she ought to consider retiring soon.

Except for the paperwork, the job of Sheriff suited her right down to her toes. She would miss it. However, it would mean more time with her husband. She'd never felt romantic toward the original Eriks, though she always admired him. Her husband had reminded her of Eriks when she met him, which was largely responsible for them becoming friends.

In time, she'd come to love her husband for himself. Otherwise, she'd not have married him. Yet the times he reminded her of Eriks had helped endear him to her. That gentleness was reflected in all of her children, to some extent.

Her own spunkiness was also in most of their children. She was proud of her kids: they'd all grown up well. She suspected the credit went at least as much to her husband as to herself.

And there she was, thinking again. She stood up and stretched. It had grown fully dark. It was past time to lock up the office. Her husband would be worried about her, and dinner would likely be growing cold.

She pulled the keys out of her pocket, and walked to the door. She pulled her wrap off the hook, put it on, turned off the light, and stepped outside.

Just as she was about to lock the door however, she heard her name.

"Lina," a voice called softly, "could you wait a minute on that?"

She whirled around, dropping her keys and reaching for her gun. Then she felt silly. The moonlight shone upon the tall, lean figure and his familiar face. She would never be in any danger from this man!

"Eriks!" she said, stooping quickly to retrieve her keys. He carried someone over his shoulder who might need help.

"What can I do to help?" Lina asked.

"Unlock the jail, please," he said. She saw him smile, and she smiled in return.

"Sure thing," she said. She'd not yet locked the door, only pulled it shut, when he interrupted her. So she opened it again, flipped on the lights, and led the way to the back where the cells were. She unlocked one, and opened its door.

"Thank you," he said. He put the bound man onto a bed inside the cell, and then began to untie him. "He's out cold now, but he was more trouble than several of them have been. Better if he's already caged before anyone else has to deal with him."

She took a closer look at the man Eriks/Vash was untying, and gasped. It was the imposter, it had to be. The red coat, the spiky hair... there was no room for it to be a coincidence. "You caught him!" she said. "We've been chasing him for months..."

"I know," he said, briefly turning his face to flash a quick smile at her over his shoulder. "I thought a little assistance might not come amiss."

"You, Mister, are _always_ welcome," she said.

"Because I'm wanted?" he said, but his tone of voice was teasing.

"I'm off duty," she said cheerfully. "I _do_ want you, but for different reasons." Her smile turned mischievous. "I remember how good you were at doing chores!"

He laughed, finished reclaiming his ropes, and moved away from the criminal. Lina locked the cell after he came out.

Pocketing her keys, she hugged him. "It's so good to see you again," she said. "I've missed you."

"I've missed you too, Lina," he said softly as he returned her hug. "I didn't want to be any trouble to you, though, so I've stayed away."

She pulled out of the hug and punched his arm. "You're worth any amount of trouble, you goof," she said.

"Ow!" he protested, rubbing the place on his arm where she'd punched him. He was smiling.

He hadn't changed at all, except that his hair was black instead of blonde. Sixty years had passed since he'd lived with her as a member of the family, back when she was a child. He looked exactly the same, while she had grey hair and wrinkles. It wasn't fair.

His all-too-brief visit one evening in the desert, years ago, was the only time she'd seen him since she was a child. She was glad he wasn't ill this time.

"Come home with me," she invited. "I'd like you to meet my husband, and stay at least long enough for dinner. You can stay longer, too, if you'd like."

"I wish I could," he said, "but there are bounty hunters in town."

"Pfft, bounty hunters," she said scornfully. "I'd like to see them try anything..."

"One of this set is particularly careless with his shooting," he replied. "He's likely here for that guy" Eriks gestured toward the unconscious criminal in the cell "but he'd doubtless be happy to catch me instead. I won't risk you."

Lina rolled her eyes. "I'm not a child anymore, you know," she said. He dodged her second punch easily, laughing.

"I know," he said, still smiling. "I still wouldn't forgive myself if I brought that kind of trouble to you."

Lina sighed. He could be stubborn; she remembered that and the facial expression that went with it. He was wearing that expression now.

"There's no way I can change your mind?" she asked wistfully.

He hugged her. "No," he said gently. "I need to go."

Suddenly she felt like a little girl again, and held onto him as long as she felt she could get away with it. "You will take care of yourself?" she said.

"I do my best," he said, "And, as you may recall, I have a friend who looks after me, too."

"Is that boring girl still traveling with you?" she asked.

He chuckled. "She may not be as spunky as you are," he said, "but she has a good heart. She's good for me, Lina."

Lina heard the change in his voice as he spoke that last sentence. That strange, quiet girl had grown into more than a friend, she realized. "Is she out in the desert somewhere waiting for you?" she asked. "She could come to dinner, too."

"She's far away, safe among people I trust," he said. "And much like you, she'd prefer that I stayed with her. Though I can't, for all the same reasons I can't stay here... and maybe one or two others, also."

Lina heard a vulnerability in his tone of voice as he'd spoken the last few words and pulled out of the hug. It was almost as if something hurt him.

"She's not being mean to you, is she?" Lina said. "If she is, I'll -"

"No," he said, with a lopsided grin. "She's just young, is all."

Lina relaxed. She could piece together a picture from what he'd said. "If she's anything like me," she said, "she'll only miss you more instead of less as the years go on."

He reached out with his right hand, and gently stroked her cheek with calloused fingertips. "Thank you," he said. "It's kind of you to say so."

"Kind nothing," she said, staring defiantly into his eyes. "I'm only saying what's true."

"Thank you all the same," he said, smiling his gentle smile. "I wish I could take you and yours to where she is, but you're needed here. And I need to go."

"You can come again, anytime," Lina said. "You will always be welcome in my house."

"Thank you," he said. "Take care of yourself, Lina."

She hugged him again. "I will," she said.

He hugged her back, patted her shoulder, and then pulled away. He smiled, and walked toward the door that led out.

She followed him as far as the doorway out, turning off the lights and locking up. He waited for her to pocket her keys, before waving and walking away into the night.

Lina watched him until he was out of sight, and sighed. She wondered if she would ever see him again, as she walked toward the home she shared with her husband.

...

...

...

...

**Author's note**: _The prior visit between Vash and Lina is detailed in chapter 3 of _"Vash's Long Road to Home."


	5. Stampeded

_This chapter's story is set approximately 60 years post-Manga._

_I do not own Trigun / Vash or Carlito (Carlo). They belong to the amazing Yasuhiro Nightow._

**Stampeded**

Slightly over twenty years after the sand-steamer incident described in chapters 1 and 2...

...

It was one of those still, desert mornings that sets your teeth on edge. The sky was hazy with sand dust, and no friendly breeze came to scour the air clean. No clouds were visible, and even the blue of the sky felt tainted.

Carlo stood at the corner of one of the buildings at Mesa Probe Church, where he'd grown up and lived most of his life. All clear. He stepped back a few paces, and began scrambling into a long red leather coat, hoping to do so unseen.

When the bandit gang came five months ago, thinking they could take over the town, everyone else had been too afraid to resist them openly. But Carlo couldn't let the bandits have his home town without a fight. These peaceful people deserved better than enslavement or being converted into involuntary organ donations.

He'd been the sheriff for fifteen years, and he was approaching retirement age. The bandits came while he was taking another criminal to a larger prison in another town. They shot his deputies, and the townsfolk had been too frightened to resist them openly or even to assist him openly.

At least the townsfolk would provide their hidden sheriff with meals and bullets, when they thought nobody was looking.

So he'd taken the first solution that presented itself to his mind. He would resurrect Vash the Stampede, and whittle away at the bandits. He'd keep at it until they either left town of their own volition, or else until they were all too injured to do any further harm.

He'd been compelled to do some serious dye work with leather scraps he'd found, to create this red patchwork coat. However, it bore a strong enough resemblance, at least at a distance, to the real thing to make the bandits nervous.

He would gladly take any edge he could get. He knew that if he fell, that would also mean the end of any hope for the townsfolk. These were his friends, and he refused to abandon them.

He checked the corner again. Still all clear.

He backed away again, and wriggled into the boots and gloves. He double-checked that his holster was secure.

The current bandit leader would be coming down that street shortly. Carlo didn't like it, but he knew no better solution than to put the man into the hospital. It would take them a little time to pick a new leader. During that time, the townsfolk would have a brief reprieve.

He carefully hid his normal clothing in the place from which he withdrew this costume, and made sure that it was again well-concealed by sand.

Then he walked again to the corner, and peered about. If he timed this correctly, he shouldn't have to wait long enough to get too nervous.

That's when he felt it. Cold steel pressed against his temple. He turned his eyes, briefly fearing he'd reached the end of his days.

Then, abruptly, he relaxed. "Vash!" he said. No sight could be more welcome... or more uncanny. The man didn't appear to have aged a single day since the last time Carlo saw him, sixty years ago.

The taller man's brows drew together in concentration, and then he also relaxed. "Carlito?" he said.

"Yes," he replied, "and boy, am I ever glad to see you!"

"Why?"

Carlo suddenly realized that the gun remained steady against his head. "The bandits, Vash," he explained slowly. "They're hurting the townsfolk. I had to do something. Sorry about borrowing your name, but I couldn't think of anything else."

"What were you planning to do?" The gun lowered as he spoke, but it wasn't going far enough for Carlo's comfort. Surely, Vash wouldn't have changed to favor bandits?

"Shoot their leader," Carlo said without flinching. "If he's in the hospital, they'd be likely to pick a different leader. That would give the people a little break from trouble, while the desperados sorted themselves out."

Vash holstered his gun. "Reporters," he said gruffly, then sighed. "They somehow neglected to mention the bandit problem here."

"Yeah, well, things like that can happen." Carlo grinned. "How have you been? I'd hoped to see you again before now."

"I've been taking your father's advice," Vash said, also grinning. "I've been working on perfecting a disappearing act."

"You've done it well," Carlo said. "I know there have been other imposters, but with no word of the genuine Stampede in all this time, I was losing hope that you were still alive."

"I think they're coming," Vash said, very softly.

Carlo turned, and nodded. "Yes," he said, scarce above a whisper. "Those are the current leader's bodyguards."

He turned, but Vash had vanished. He blinked, but there was no time. He turned back toward the street, waiting for his opportunity.

But today, his opportunity never came.

It sounded like a single gunshot, but three bandits fell to their knees, clutching the shoulders of their gun-wielding arms. Another report echoed through the streets, and three more fell clutching their thighs. More shots followed.

Soon every visible bandit, including their leader, had been shot at least once. Some were hit two or three times, if they didn't drop their guns promptly. All were significantly injured, but none bore life-threatening injuries.

Carlo startled as Vash dropped down beside him. He'd forgotten how well the Humanoid Typhoon could jump.

"That should put a dent in their plans against the ordinary folk here," Vash said grimly.

"Thank you," Carlo said.

"Unfortunately, I can't linger," Vash said sadly. "They'd call in bounty hunters and go after the price on my head, making the local situation worse."

Carlo couldn't dispute that, though he wanted to. "What will you do?"

"Disappear," Vash said. "I'll see about leaving an anonymous tip to law enforcement nearby, though, so you can get some back-up."

"Thank you," Carlo said.

"Take care of yourself," Vash said, and then leaped again.

Carlo didn't see which way he went. He must have jumped to a rooftop again. Vash could make his way out of town from there.

"Take care of yourself, too, Vash," he said.

He didn't know if his friend was still near enough to hear.


	6. Stampeding a Legend

_This chapter's story is set approximately 62 years post-Manga._

_I do not own Trigun / Vash or Tonis. They belong to the amazing Yasuhiro Nightow._

**Stampeding a Legend**

Approximately twenty-two years after the sand-steamer incident described in chapters 1 and 2...

...

The late afternoon was sweltering in the Sheriff's office in May City.

Tonis limped to a window, and opened it. There wasn't enough breeze available to improve the air inside the office. Sighing, he wearily returned to his desk.

He nodded amiably at his co-worker, whose face thanked him for trying even though there were no appreciable results. Then the other man returned to filling out a lengthy report.

Tonis had been a sheriff's deputy for many years. Once, he'd been up for promotion to sheriff, but that had ended with his injury. A gunfight had gone wrong, leaving one leg slightly lame.

His slight, but noticeable limp largely locked him to the office. He could ride a Thomas as well as anybody, but he could no longer run after a fleeing outlaw. Any hope of promotion had ended when his limp began.

Tonis found himself pushing back his own graying bangs and nostalgically opening the desk drawer where he kept his battered toy pistol. He'd played with it a great deal as a child. As he grew, however, he'd realized it was special. It was the very same gun that had once been used to preserve the lives of some overly zealous bounty hunters.

The real "Vash the Stampede" had fired it, many years ago. The legendary gunman had used its soft suction-cup darts to display his uncanny aim. It had worked, compelling the troublesome bounty hunters to surrender rather than risk trying his patience. They knew he had a real gun that fired lead bullets, too.

Tonis would never forget that day, nor the days that followed when he and the other children had played with Vash almost every day. He had permitted them to overcome him, regularly, while encouraging them to pursue peace and do good. The man had continually insisted that he was nothing special, but Tonis was persuaded otherwise.

His opinion on that matter remained unchanged. The imposters that kept plaguing various towns and cities around the world could not change his mind, either. He found it privately amusing that some vigilante had apparently taken exception to the imposters, and was quietly putting them out of business.

One by one, the false "Vash the Stampede" outlaws would find themselves (and often their gangs as well) trussed up in front of sheriffs' offices near to where they had robbed, plundered, and sometimes murdered. The bound outlaws would frequently have a note attached, something that mocked their false claims of being "Vash the Stampede."

Eye witnesses had a way of turning up, too. Usually, not long after one of the criminals was discovered at the sheriff's doorstep, one or two witnesses would cautiously come forward. Then more would come, until there was so much evidence that the keys to the criminals' jail cells were figuratively thrown away.

Those witnesses had a lot to say about the activities of the criminals. When asked about the vigilante who brought them in, though, most either honestly had no idea or else they abruptly lost all interest in talking. A very few had been persuaded to mention a tall, lean, dark-haired man seen only at a distance.

There was no talk of spiky hair, nor of a red coat. Tonis wasn't sure what to think. He did recall the news cast, 60-something years ago, that was supposed to be an interview of Vash... until Vash ran away. In that picture, which was still circulated upon occasion, the legendary gunman had black hair instead of blonde.

The reporter had looked like the same girl who'd been following Vash around when he was in town after the Nebraska people were captured (most of which was Vash's doing). If it was the same woman, she would know whether she was interviewing the real Vash or not. Tonis wondered if she would lie about that.

He shrugged. Vash had been laying low; maybe the man had dyed his hair to reduce suspicion. That might also explain the absence of the red coat. Tonis recalled the man's sense of humor. Those notes, they sounded like something he would write.

On an impulse, Tonis placed the toy pistol on the inner ledge of a window that could not be opened, right by his desk. That left it in plain view from the street.

He had no reason to expect the real Vash to venture this way, unless his instinct was correct. There was no hard evidence to back that instinct, but it kept tickling in the back of his brain nonetheless. He was probably only being an old fool.

However, if the humanoid typhoon _did_ chance to pass this way, and if he _also_ chanced to look into the window, and if by some miracle he recognized that particular toy gun... so many ifs. Yet it was the only message Tonis could leave, without risking his job. None of the others here would understand what the toy gun meant. Unlikely as it was, it remained slightly possible that Vash would understand he had a friend there.

Tonis opened a newspaper with more force than was strictly needed, carefully avoiding looking toward the wall with the wanted posters. If he saw that poster proclaiming the bounty on Vash's head again right now, he might do something he'd regret.

He thumbed through various pages, pausing at the sports section to peruse the outcome of some Thomas races. His late wife's cousin had an interest in a Thomas farm that bred racing beasts, and he was curious if any of those had figured prominently in recent races.

His thoughts were interrupted.

"I haven't seen one of these in a while," a masculine voice said softly. "They stopped making this model at least half a century ago."

When Tonis looked up, he thought for a minute that he must have dozed off and been dreaming. Never in a million years would he have expected the sight that met his eyes. Not here, not today, not less than an hour after placing the message in the window.

Unbound shoulder-length black hair framed a narrow face with startlingly clear aqua eyes. A face he recalled clearly from many fond memories. That face had not changed at all in the last 65 years.

He dropped the paper and stood up. He opened his mouth to utter a greeting, but the taller man placed a finger over his own lips in a gesture for silence. Remembering where he was, Tonis closed his mouth.

He glanced at the clock, took a deep breath, and said calmly, "A fellow connoisseur of guns, eh? My shift ends in an hour. Maybe we could have a drink, and talk over some of our favorites?"

"I would like that." The reply came with a smile that was also intensely familiar. "I'll return in an hour then, if you find yourself still inclined at that time."

"Oh, I will still be inclined," Tonis said with fervor. "Shall we meet at the bar on the corner?" He gestured in the direction of the specified establishment. "That way, if something comes up and I'm unable to leave precisely on schedule, you can wait in better comfort than is available here."

The man standing in front of his desk nodded, and replaced the small toy gun onto the window ledge with careful precision. "I'll see you then, Tonis," he said quietly.

Tonis smiled as he watched the tall man lower his head just a fraction, and then turn and leave. For daring, that man had no equal. Walk right into the Sheriff's office, why didn't he? No reason not to, aside from several billion double dollars' worth of bounty on his head...

Tonis chuckled and shook his own head. He picked up his dropped paper and did a better job of reading the Thomas races' outcomes.

...

The final hour of Tonis' shift plodded along slowly, but it finally ended. Then he stood to leave, putting on his vest as the day finally began to cool just a little.

Tonis had enough seniority to get off work before the other office-bound deputy, so he waved at that unfortunate as he worked his way through the office. Tonis palmed an extra set of handcuffs and pocketed them, when he was sure the other deputy wasn't looking. Then he left the office and limped to the bar.

It didn't take much looking to spot the tall stranger at the back corner table. He wore dull colors, and was bent over a meal, but Tonis recognized him instantly after seeing him again earlier that day. He greeted a few of the patrons, and then walked as normally as possible to the back corner table.

"Good evening," he said as casually as he could. He found his old heart racing with excitement. He'd not seen this man since he was a boy, and though he'd grown up and was even growing grey, the other seemed a picture of young adulthood still.

"Good evening," his companion said. "I took the liberty of ordering us some Thomas strips and fried potatoes. I hope that suits you?"

"That suits me just fine," he said, smiling, as he took a seat. In addition to the plates of food, there was a glass of water for each. He lowered his voice, speaking only a little above a whisper so it wouldn't carry. "Is this visit a coincidence, or are you here after a certain outlaw claiming that he's a legend?"

"Hmm, guess I need to be more subtle," he said. "You aren't the first to make that guess."

"I think only folk who've known you would suspect," he said.

The wanted man bowed his head. "And that number grows fewer with each passing year," he said sadly.

Suddenly Tonis caught a glimpse of the high price of immortality. "Hey, man," he said gently, "I'm sorry."

Pain-filled aqua eyes rose to meet his gaze, and then a self-deprecating smile appeared under them. "Not your fault," Vash said softly.

"I brought something for you," Tonis said, hoping it would lighten the mood a little. "Given the reason you're here, you might find these useful." He pulled the spare handcuffs from his pocket, and slid them across the table on the side nearest the wall.

Vash raised an eyebrow. "Are you suggesting I should put these on, and come along quietly?" he asked.

"Oh, good grief," Tonis said, snorting, "No." He lowered his voice again. "They're for you to use on the bandit, instead of ropes."

Vash smiled bleakly. "Thank you," he said cautiously, "but won't my using them point to you being involved? I don't wish to cause you any difficulties."

"Those are a spare pair," Tonis said. "Technically, they're not even mine. Don't worry about me, big brother. I'll be fine."

"I hear rumors that say otherwise," Vash countered softly. "I hear you try to stand up for an old outlaw, saying his reputation is untrue. Some people think you're a bit off your rocker."

Tonis snorted. "They can think what they like," he said contemptuously.

"For whatever it's worth," Vash said, "Thank you. However, please bear in mind... if they won't believe me, it's not much more likely that they'll believe you. Please, don't dig yourself into too deep of a hole on my account. I'm a big boy. I can handle a few insults."

"I'll keep that in mind," Tonis said, sincerely grateful for the concern expressed. "I'll be retiring soon, though. After that, I'll run off at the mouth unhindered." He grinned widely.

"Congratulations," Vash said, smiling in a manner more nearly cheerful.

"Is there anything I can do to help?" Tonis asked.

"I know where he holes up for the night," Vash said. "I'll just go in after he's asleep, cuff him, gag him, and carry him to the doorstep of the sheriff's office."

"With a note?" Tonis suggested. "I must confess, I enjoy reading the reports of what your notes say. Don't disappoint me!"

Vash chuckled softly. "Some aren't so great," he admitted. "In truth, I'm beginning to run short on ideas of what to write. Unless I want to start re-using ones I've used before, and I'd rather not do that."

"I'm sure you'll come up with something suitable," Tonis said.

With that, he dove into the provided food and saw Vash do the same. Neither spoke again until both plates were clean.

"I should go," Vash said. "I have a letter to mail before I wait for a certain criminal to fall asleep."

"Writing the girl back home?" Tonis asked, grinning. Something in the other man's facial expression had suggested the idea to his mind.

Vash looked at him and blinked, and then his eyes narrowed. "I suppose you could say that," he admitted. Suddenly the wanted man's fair complexion looked a bit sunburned.

Tonis remembered the early days of knowing his own wife, before they married. He also remembered how he'd grown accustomed to having her around, and failed to appreciate her in the days before she died. "Don't take her for granted," he said wistfully. "You may regret that later, as I have."

"I'm sorry for your loss," Vash said gently. "I'll do my best to remember your advice."

He stood and extended his right hand. Tonis stood and shook it.

"Take care of yourself, Tonis," he said. "Have a good retirement."

"I'll do my best," Tonis promised.

Vash nodded and left the saloon without another word. He did pause briefly in the doorway to wave and grin before he walked out of Tonis' life for the second time.

...

The following morning, the imposter was discovered handcuffed to the front of the Sheriff's office. On him was a note that read, "I said I was a legend, but that was only in my own mind."


	7. Stampede into the Sunset

_This chapter's story is set approximately 95 years post-Manga._

_I do not own Trigun / Vash or Chronica. They belong to the amazing Yasuhiro Nightow._

**Stampede into the Sunset**

Approximately fifty-five years after the sand-steamer incident described in chapters 1 and 2...

...

Chronica watched the suns set and the stars come out from her favorite vantage point. She was sitting on the roof of the sheriff's office in the outskirts of Octovarn. She enjoyed that moment when the winds began to blow cooler air over the parched face of No Man's Land.

She did not treat herself to this view every day. That would spoil it, removing something of its freshness. However, today had been her birthday. There were none alive on this world who knew that, so she celebrated it quietly here, alone.

She closed her eyes and enjoyed the gentle gusts of wind that blew her hair back. This hour of the day was one of the few that she truly enjoyed and found refreshing.

The moment passed, and she suppressed a sigh. It was time to get down, get dinner either at home or at a café or saloon, and then rest to be ready for the morrow.

_Maybe tomorrow_, she thought again. _Maybe then, we can stop that arrogant bastard_.

Her sisters in the orbs still insisted that "red brother" was a friend. Yet the bandit and his gang who were terrorizing the city so severely that it felt under siege was anything but friendly. She concluded that her sisters were mistaken.

Chronica opened her eyes and tensed herself to jump down from the roof.

But a sound halted her movement ere she stirred. This edge of town was well away from the livelier districts. Why would she hear a footstep now?

Moving slowly and cautiously to avoid making any sound, she peered over the edge of the roof. A tall, lean man was bending over and carefully placing something on the ground in front of the Sheriff's office.

She carefully opened her awareness, and could sense that another plant was nearby. After all this time, could it really be...?

A cloud moved and the moonlight grew brighter.

With silent speed, she drew her gun, aimed at the leg of the tall man, and fired. He cried out, and limped around the corner with surprising speed. She'd grown accustomed to the way ordinary humans moved.

This man didn't move like that. She smiled. He couldn't get far, not with that injury.

She jumped down from the roof, and looked at what he'd left behind. It was a man in a red coat, with a note attached to him. The note read, "I claimed to be an ace gunman, but I was really more of a joker."

Chronica rolled her eyes, and followed the blood trail. It didn't go far, just around a few buildings and then between some shipping containers. There he sat, bandaging his leg.

He looked up as she approached with her gun still at the ready. He looked back down, and finished tying off his bandage. Then he spoke.

"Please," he said, "get the other gang members. I had to injure some of them. I bandaged them, and they should survive the night with no trouble. But if they don't get more help after that..."

He looked up, his eyes pleading. "Please," he said again. "Don't leave them to die."

"And what will you be doing while I'm off looking for these bandits?" Chronica asked.

"I can't exactly run," he said. "Do with me as you please, as long as you help them."

"Are they your men?" she asked.

"No," he said. "They are associates of the man in front of the sheriff's office. He's the one who claimed to be the Stampede."

"And what do you claim?"

"I claim nothing," he said. He raised his hands in a gesture of surrender.

Ninety-five years she'd been searching for this man, and his brother. And all he does is surrender, with a request that she save the lives of bandits? She shook her head, feeling a little confused. Rumors among humans indicated that he should be a merciless killer.

Did her sisters really know him that much better than the humans did? Her sisters weren't always the best judges of character.

She reached out and caught one of his wrists, and pulled him to his feet. He winced, and stood only on the leg that wasn't injured. As she continued pulling, he limped after her without protest, though he did wince and grimace a lot. She let go of him long enough to claim his revolver and push it into her own belt.

She pulled the keys to the sheriff's office out of her pocket, and unlocked the door. She led him through the front part to the back where the jail cells were. She unlocked one of them, and led him into it. He sank down onto the bed, and then leaned forward to rest his palms on the edge of the bed. He hung his head, and said nothing.

She stepped back out, and locked the door.

"I need to know you aren't concealing any weapons," she said. "Strip down to your underpants, and hand everything through the bars."

He looked startled at first, then sad. "Must I?" he said. His eyes spoke more loudly, pleading for something.

"Get on with it," she said, gesturing with her gun. "I don't much care what you look like. I just need to know that I won't be shot in the back if I turn around."

"I wouldn't hurt you," he said.

"Strip already, or else I'll shoot you again."

He sighed and began slipping out of his jacket. He scooted along the bed, favoring his injured leg, until he could reach the bars where she was. He handed it to her. She took it, but kept watching him. One false move and she would shoot him.

But he made no false moves. He was slow and obvious as he took off his boots and vest. He gave her another pleading look before taking off his shirt. He wore bandages just above his waist, and there was a little blood oozing.

But that wasn't what made her gasp. The number of scars on his body... and he was a fellow independent Plant, who could have healed every one!

He finished undressing, careful of injuries on both stomach and leg. He passed all his clothing through the bars. She searched his clothing, and found only a knife that could qualify as a weapon. She claimed the knife, which he'd probably used to cut his pants so that he could bandage his leg. She returned his shirt, pants and boots.

He put on the clothes she returned to him, and then resumed his former position of leaning his hands on the edge of the bed with his head down.

"Assuming I believe your story enough to investigate," she said conversationally, "where would I look for these bandits?"

His head came up, a faint glimmer of hope mingled with the pleading in his clear aqua eyes. He gave detailed directions, including which street of the town to leave for the desert, which direction to go, and a few landmarks. He said there should be twelve people that needed to be moved, with eight of them injured.

"I'll see what I can find," she said.

She unlocked another cell, and then went outside to pick up the man who was tied up in the front of the office. On the way, she deposited Vash's other clothing and the contents of his pockets on a bench. She carried the trussed up man from outside in, and laid him on the bed in the open cell. After that, she left and locked the door behind her.

The man she'd shot said not a word while she did those things. He had leaned over on the bed, and curled up in a semi-fetal position. It looked like he might be crying.

She left, locking everything behind her, and went to the garage to get a truck with space in back for a few people. She drove it out into the desert, following the directions she had been given.

She was mildly surprised to find a group of bound men and women exactly where he'd said she would, and exactly as many as he'd said she would. Also, exactly as he'd described, some of them had been injured and were bandaged in addition to being securely bound with ropes. None of their injuries was serious, provided they received further care in a reasonable period of time.

She noted that the bandaging was well-done, as if by a practiced hand. These people had shot him, yet he'd bandaged them. Had she not interrupted, he would have carried each one, individually, into town so that they could get help. This was a very different view of the man than most humans had when they spoke of him.

She loaded the bandits into the back of the truck. It was a little cramped, but they were all able to fit without risk of further injury to any of them. She drove them back to the sheriff's office. She returned to the jail cells, and unlocked the other empty ones. Then she started hauling the uninjured bandits into the jail.

She laid each bound person onto one of the beds, and then returned to get the next.

She glared at the man she'd shot, though he remained curled up on the bed with tears streaming down his cheeks. She let herself check, and was surprised to learn that he cried not for physical pain but instead from a deep sense of loss.

She locked all the cells, and then left to drive the injured bandits to the local hospital. The people at the hospital were surprised, but willing to accept the new patients.

Chronica stopped by the sheriff's house and asked that deputies be assigned to guard them. The surprised sheriff agreed to that, and to her additional request for deputies to be sent to guard the healthier prisoners now caged in the jail.

_I should take him to the hospital_, she grudgingly admitted to herself. _His leg and stomach should be looked at_. So she returned to the jail, arriving before any of the deputies. She went to his cell, and unlocked it. He sat up, with tears still damp on his face, and simply looked a question at her.

"You're injured," she stated the obvious. "A doctor should look at those. Come with me."

He began to stand, but initially put too much weight on his injured leg and fell back onto the bed. The second try worked better. He began to limp toward her very slowly. She suspected the numbness was wearing off. She was surprised that he didn't complain.

She impatiently holstered her gun, and pulled his right arm across her shoulders. That helped him move faster until she got him to the truck. She opened the door, and he climbed in with only a little assistance from her.

She shut the door, and walked around to the driver's seat. She started the truck and put it into gear. She glanced at him as the truck began to move forward, and saw him sitting still with his head bowed. Risking another quick, passive detection of his emotions, she again felt his agonizingly deep sense of loss.

"So where have you been?" she asked. "I'm not the only one who's been looking for you."

"I stayed with an old woman who desperately wanted a son, until she died," he said. "Since then, I've kept moving."

"Did you kill her?" Chronica asked.

"No!" he said, sounding hurt. He turned his head to look at her, with shock and sorrow on his face. "I wouldn't do that. She was so kind, I..." He turned his face away, looking out the window beside him.

"So I'm supposed to believe that the 'humanoid typhoon' spent several years all alone with an old lady, pretending he was her son?" Chronica snorted.

"Believe what you like," he said softly.

"Where's Knives?" she said.

"I don't know," he replied. "He was gone when I woke up."

The rest of the trip back to the hospital was silent. She helped him in, and got him to a room with a bed. She helped him get up onto it. She went out and asked a nurse to get a doctor to come look at a patient. Then she returned into the room.

He was sitting exactly as she had left him, with his head down.

"Does getting captured break your spirit so easily?" she asked, disbelieving.

"No," he said softly.

"Then why are you crying?" she asked. She knew his tears were not feigned, but could not tell the cause from the faint emotional echoes he gave out.

Suddenly she noticed dampness, with a reddish tint, just above his waist. It was soaking through his shirt. "How bad is that other injury?" she asked.

"It's not important," he said quietly.

She put her head out the door. "Is a doctor coming yet?" she asked the nurse walking by. "I think this patient may be hurt worse than I'd first realized. He's bleeding significantly."

"We'll get one," the nurse said, and quickened her pace.

"Thanks," Chronica called after her.

She returned to the room where the man still sat dejectedly. "Off with that shirt," she commanded.

He looked up at her with a desolate expression in his aqua eyes, but he said nothing.

"I'm not kidding," she snapped. "Take it off, _now_."

His shoulders moved slightly in what might have been a shrug, and then he began unbuttoning his shirt.

Once again, she was shocked by the number and severity of his scars. She bade him lay down on the bed, so he wouldn't be using his stomach muscles. She started removing the bandages around his upper abdomen, touching his body as little as possible in the process.

The doctor arrived just as she had reached the innermost layer of bandaging. Chronica stepped back to let the man do his job.

"What happened to you?" he asked calmly. He began washing the wound.

"I ran afoul of some bandits," Vash replied.

"Hmmph," the doctor said. "Was it that damned 'Vash the Stampede' who's been causing so much trouble lately? I wish somebody would shoot him!"

"Be careful what you wish for," Vash said softly. "You may get it."

He passed out as the doctor probed at his wounds. Chronica quietly stepped nearer. "How bad is it?" she asked the doctor.

"Frankly, I'm surprised he didn't pass out sooner," the doctor said. "Is he a prisoner?"

"Possibly," she said, half disbelieving her own words. "I'm trying to determine just how much involvement he had with the bandits. It is possible... he might only be a victim."

"I see," the doctor said. "Well, the bullets seem to have gone clean through, but he was hit a few times. They barely missed his lungs and liver, but it tore up some of his muscles. He'll survive, but he won't enjoy it for several months."

"His leg is injured, too," she said. She suffered a pang of guilt as she thought about that. She remembered how her sisters and a few humans had insisted Vash was no criminal, but someone who cared about all the people on the planet. His behavior so far seemed to back up those stories, instead of the many tales of criminal acts attributed to him.

The doctor finished re-bandaging Vash's stomach. Then he removed Vash's leg bandages, and cleaned that injury also. Finally, he put fresh bandages on the leg injury.

Chronica tried to shake off her confusion. She simply didn't have enough information yet. She must be careful, and patient. She'd been angry at this man for so long... it was difficult to think or admit that she might have been badly mistaken.

"If there's any chance this guy is a victim," the doctor said, "we should probably watch him overnight. He's lost a lot of blood, and his wounds were not cleaned immediately. There could be complications."

"All right," she said. "I need to check on something, but I'll be back. I'll watch him when I return; you needn't trouble the sheriff's deputies when they arrive. We already know that the others are bandits."

"Understood," the doctor said. "I'll have an orderly stay with him until you return, to make sure there's no trouble."

"Thanks," she said. She needed to get his clothes from the sheriff's office. With luck, perhaps nobody had noticed them.

She didn't know yet what she would do with him, but she wanted to keep her options open. If his clothing was found, that could force her hand.

As she'd hoped, the deputies who'd arrived were too busy with the people in the jail to have noticed Vash's things yet. They were also busy reacting in various ways to the note found on the red-coated bandit.

"So, that vigilante was here, eh?" one said. "Normally, I don't like meddlers. But this one has some good results! Not an 'Ace' gunman, but instead a 'Joker' ... ha ha ha ha ha!"

She spoke with them a little, and saw to it that things were well in hand. Then she quietly gathered up Vash's effects and left for the hospital.

She stuffed his things into a bag before entering the hospital. He was still in the same room, and still unconscious. The orderly nodded at her, and left. She put down the bag with Vash's things in it, and stared at him for a short while.

She knew what she was about to do was unethical, but she needed to know a few things - and she needed to know them fast. She also knew this wouldn't work if he was conscious.

Chronica tried to brace herself, having no idea what she would find. She stretched her hand out, and laid it on his forehead.

...

It was late afternoon of the following day before he stirred. His eyes snapped open, and he tried to sit up. That effort was immediately cut short with a groan, as he fell flat again clutching at his stomach. His eyes squeezed shut, and he gasped a few times.

Then his eyes opened again, more slowly. He looked around, and saw her. He looked away from her, toward the window. Then his expression changed.

"You've been in my mind," he said. He barely spoke above a whisper, and she had not previously known it was possible for a voice to hold so much anguish.

"I needed to know about Knives," she said. That had been one of the reasons she looked. Surely, he would understand that need. Knives was dangerous.

"You didn't need to go that deep just to learn about him," he said in that same soft, anguished tone.

"Depends on how much I wanted to learn," she said.

He continued staring forlornly out the window.

Chronica was still processing what she'd seen in his mind. He'd been wandering so long, so alone. He desperately wanted peace and love, yet both were constantly denied him. It was difficult to adjust her thinking.

Her sisters had been right, and the humans who scorned him as a vicious killer had been wrong. She had been wrong.

She didn't know what to do about it.

She'd watched him all night. His hair was nearly all turned black - even his brows had turned black. She had dared to run her fingers through his hair, searching, while he slept. She found four blonde hairs near the crown of his head. That was all.

He couldn't function like a plant in that condition. Any use of plant power, under these conditions, would kill him. On the other hand, he could live like a human for a very long time.

"You neglected to mention that the old woman you stayed with had an adopted daughter," she said.

His breathing stopped for the space of several heartbeats. Then he slowly drew breath, and spoke.

"Please," he said, "if you want to kill me, just do it. Do not ask me to betray the sweetest, purest, gentlest, most innocent soul on this world. At least let her live in peace. Please."

"Where is she?" Chronica pressed.

"Somewhere I hope she will be safe," he said. "She'll be safer as long as I stay away."

His internal pain spiked again. Suddenly, she understood. "You don't expect to see her again, do you?"

"I expect to die," he said softly. "Isn't that why the bounty on my head says 'dead or alive'? Most prefer 'dead' to 'alive,' and I daresay that difference will be solved after some excuse for a trial makes it all look properly legal."

Chronica winced. She'd heard enough talk among the law-enforcing humans to know that he was probably right. It surprised her that he didn't sound bitter, only sad.

Her sisters were right. This man truly was a gentle soul.

She hadn't named him. None knew who he was. There was still a possibility of fixing this, of turning him loose again.

"I haven't turned you in yet," she said slowly.

Those words made his head turn toward her again. His eyes narrowed as he searched her face. She let her sincerity be felt strong enough for him to detect it.

"Why?"

"You're Knives' brother, by all accounts," she said. "I thought you would be like him. When you weren't, well, that changed a few things."

He just looked at her, his expressive aqua eyes puzzled.

"How many of the crimes of which you stand accused are Knives' doing?" she asked.

He turned his head to stare at the ceiling. "I failed to stop him," he said. "That makes me as guilty as he is."

His emotions were not in conflict with his words. He was telling the truth, or what he perceived to be true. Had he been carrying that guilt all along?

"I disagree," she said firmly. "He chose to do harm. You did not."

"That's not what the price on my head says," he said. "I have ... killed. I deserve whatever they choose to do to me." He turned his face back to the window.

The one with the power to choose was currently herself, Chronica realized. He would not resist if she turned him in. He was too sad and guilt-ridden.

The more she knew him, though, the less inclined she was to turn him in.

...

Two weeks later, they stood at the edge of town as the first sun began dipping behind the horizon. His sad, gentle eyes looked puzzled.

"I mean it," she said. "Nobody else knows who you are. Get out of here, before I change my mind. Go."

He stood for a moment longer, and then nodded. "Thank you," he said softly.

He turned around and limped toward the sunset without looking back.

She watched him walk away, as the suns continued setting and spreading the multicolored glory of their last rays across the sky. The farther he walked, the lighter her heart felt.

_I did right by him, and by this world_, she realized. _I could still stop him, and turn him in. He wouldn't protest, except to look at me sadly through those eyes. _

_I won't do it, though. Letting him go is the right thing to do. I can feel it_.

She continued watching until the night enfolded him, and she could see him no more.


End file.
